“Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head. It was Blueskin. ‘I should never have told you. Have you ever heard the name of Meysey Hill?” “Meysey Hill?” He repeated it after her, and she knew at once from his tone and his quick glance into her face that the name possessed some significance for him. His father was one of my old customers, and I am happy to find his son treading in his steps. She placed the freezer back on top of Ray Plote's old hiding place, now his permanent resting place. Somehow logic could not explain her. Heaven knows why! They don’t marry most of us off now until high up in the twenties.
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